A week ago, after my previous diary entry, I crawled into my bed, closed my eyes, and waited for Death to claim me. The last recollection I have from that day is the ethereal sound of Camilla’s voice raised in song. I cannot articulate the intensity of my elation upon mistaking this slumberous fantasy for my earthly departure, or the extent of my disappointment to awaken later to a face that was not my wife’s.

In my feverish haze, it took me some time to recognize the woman hovering over me as Jacob’s daughter Gabriella. She was dabbing at my brow with a damp cloth. And the rivulets of water that dripped onto my lips tasted better than the best of ales.

I am alive? I asked her in disbelief.

I believe so, she said with a kind smile. She ladled a small spoonful of water into my mouth. I gulped it thirstily.

How is this possible? I asked. Despite the welcome liquid, my voice was still no more than a croak.

Gabriella explained the she and her father had come to my home the same day I had lost consciousness, bearing the gift of meat to express their gratitude for my efforts in repairing his arm. They found my door ajar. I lay stuporous in my bed, burning up with fever and muttering unintelligibly.

It sounded as though you believed you were conversing with your wife, Gabriella said.

I attempted to lift my head off the mattress but lacked the strength. You have attended me for these last three days?

Not only I. She explained how her father and her older sister had taken turns in nursing me.

But the risk to you all, I protested.

Gabriella eyed me as though I were still delirious. The pestilence is everywhere, Doctor Pasqua. So is the risk.

Maybe so, I argued. But for you to be in such close proximity to my festering wounds, it surely places you in danger.

My father has observed that the people who care for the afflicted with the chest plague are at far higher risk of falling ill than those who attend ones with only buboes. And you have not coughed once in my presence.

I realized she was correct. I did only have the skin affliction, not the chest plague. Surely it was the only reason that I had been spared.

Gabriella fed me two more welcome spoonfuls of water. She looked down at her hands. Doctor Pasqua, may I ask you something?

Yes, of course.

When we first arrived at your home, we found several rats, she said. Some were still alive and others were in various stages of dissection. Were they a part of some form of remedy?

Yes, a failed one, I said. I described the rats of the San Giovanni Monastery and how I had hoped to transfer their protective humors to myself.

But why do you assume this remedy to have been a failure when you are still alive?